Ou Mort
by I Brake For Bishounen Boys
Summary: During his Revolution, Francis has a conversation with Death. Now a two-shot, with a new chapter from Death's perspective. Read and review, please.
1. Chapter 1

_This is very, very rough, but I loved the idea, and there is not enough Revolutionary!France in proportion to Revolutionary!America. Seriously. Way more angst in the latter._

_For the record, this personification of Death is supposed to be the one from the Viennese musical 'Elisabeth', which I've just been acquainted with and will likely love forever. I'm not putting this in the cross-over section because people can read this and still get it if they're unfamiliar with 'Elisabeth'. For those who are familiar with the musical, please envision Uwe Kröger's incarnation of Der Tod (sighs, utterly in love)._

_Disclaimer- Neither Hidekaz Himuraya's personifications of Nations nor the personification of Death indigenous to 'Elisabeth' are mine. Pity._

Ou Mort

Francis has apparently met Death several times before in his lifetime, but he first recognizes him in the midst of the Revolution. He remembers that same face in the mobs of the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre (1), years and years before. It occurs to him that his visitor was no mortal, and no Nation either. The knowledge in his visitor's eyes is older than any Nation's. Slowly, through the haze of drugs that his mind has become, Francis puts two and two together.

"Monsieur La Mort," he murmurs, and twists the bedsheets in his restless spidery hands. He calls Death 'Monsieur' because of the clothes that he wears, and not through any actual certainty of his gender. "It's not often that I get a visitor of such gravitas in my humble abode. What is the occasion? Have you come to take me away, perhaps? Is there a young one born of Liberté-Égalité-Fraternité (2) to take my place?"

"No, Francis Bonnefoy," Death promises. "You have a long time before that eventuality."

"What is a long time to you?" Francis whispers.

"That's immaterial," Death smiles reassuringly sitting down on the bed beside Francis. "You needn't be scared of me, Francis. I've been with you ever since your first battle, when you couldn't even hold a sword in your two small hands, when you made your first kill."

"... Mon dieu, I don't remember my first kill," Francis laughs weakly, and offers a drink from his bedside table that Death politely declines. "They started to run together in my head after the first century or so."

"I find it strange that you Nations start to forget little things like that," Death says softly.

"I remember what my people choose to remember," Francis says, though this is a lie he tells to every leader who asks him about his sometimes defunct remembrances. "My memories are regulated to what's been written. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Why don't I believe you?" Death asks pityingly, and his hand strays to Francis' cheek. His touch is strangely comforting, the promise of a long rest after too long a day. Francis finds himself leaning into Death's hand, though he knows it's unnaturally morbid. But it's been too long since he's been deprived of the comfort of an embrace.

"I am tired," Francis admits after a moment, "and when I am tired, I like to forget."

"Yes, many do."

"It's not bad that I like to forget, right?" Francis insists, finding a need to defend himself in the face of that obtuse response. "Many others remember for me, old men with thick glasses and an education that have backs the shape of upside-down 'j's from reading the books all the time. I... ah, why are you laughing... are you even real? Or did I just make you up?"

"I am not laughing at you, Francis," Death assures, and his lilting chuckle subsides. "And though you probably don't believe me, I am quite real, or as real as I can be. You can remember me, can you not?"

"Oui, mais..."

"However anecdotal it may be, I daresay that your memory is as trustworthy as it has always been, even with that drug in your veins," Death says, attempting to dispel Francis' doubt before it even leaves his lips. Leaning forward conspirationally,_ intimately_, he continues. "You doubt yourself only because they doubt you. Don't you believe deep-down, that you are succeeding?"

"At what price?" Francis says, and he knows that Death can hear the weariness in his voice, the unconscious plea for his kiss. "Why must everything come at such a price?"

"Well, to paraphrase your dearly departed Queen, when you can't afford bread, go eat cake (3)."

Death smiles cruelly, and leaves Francis in agony.

* * *

Historical Notes

1. The St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre was an extremely bloody clash between the Roman Catholics and a religious group called the Huguenots starting on August 23, 1572 (St. Bartholomew's Day, of course). The violence was mainly directed at the Huguenots, and was believed to have been triggered by the marriage of Henry III of Navarre and Marguerite de Valois, which took place six days earlier.

2. Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité ou Mort is believed to have been the rallying cry in the French Revolution. Translated, it means, 'Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death'. It remains the national motto of France, according to wikipedia.

3. In the time following the Revolution, Marie-Antoinette (apparently) said, in response to complaints over the high price of bread, "Let them eat cake", which displayed, in several people's minds, an ignorance and callousness over her citizens' plight.


	2. Chapter 2

No Nation can love. From the very beginning of their career, their hearts were cut clean out of their body and kept in the capital of the land that they were representative of. The practice started with Rome, when it was decided by a select few that the Nations should be spared the passions that originated from the heart. Though anyone with just a bit of anatomical knowledge nowadays knows that love doesn't originate from the heart, the pain that comes from this cardioectomy is such that they cannot deal with it without blocking off several other vital, if expendable parts of their thoughts.

It's a rather inconvenient side effect- France, the Nation of love, cannot be stirred by the words of the poets in his land, and can only make maudlin attempts to feel as his people do. Austria, back bent over his piano, does not feel the passion of the music that reverberates within his fingertips. England, when he wakes up at sea, does not wonder when he climbs the crow's nest and realizes he is surrounded by blue.

No Nation can claim to be as complete as they were when they started existing. Apart from a few differences in longevity and energy sources, their physiognomy is exactly the same as a human being's. They do not keep well, and parts of their bodies have a tendency to wear out frequently, so they need to get replacements before they start decaying. Some are better at remembering to do this than others. Some, out of self-pity or general sloth, prefer to rot.

Indeed, these man-made notions are repulsive. They play their best and worst moments over like broken records, and they are just as petty and cruel as the people who made them. They try to drown out the pain of having no heart and congealed blood by inflicting pain a thousand times worse on each other. They play with each other's agony by parodying that thing called love.

They inspire their mortal admirers to such fervor that when they realize their idols' true nature, they die celibate and bitter and old. To see this happen causes a stirring in the Nations' minds that is almost like sadness, and they crave it.

And I am not stirred by these revelations as once I was. I have long ago learnt that in their world (no, not their geopolitical world, their world of tricks and boredom) I serve my purpose merely as a narrator, though often I must intercede.

I am Fate, I am Death, I am whatever people want to call me when they hate me most. The Nations think they can outsmart me, but they forget I have been around longer than them in their rotting flesh cages. I know all the tricks, I invented half of them. They presume to know more than me about the very land that I've been roaming since the mortals could comprehend me.

Once I visited France, who was on his deathbed for the third time that century. The first two times were of no consequence to me, but this time there was another in the cards to take his place and continue as the republic he didn't have the capacity to be. I wasn't relishing his death; even more repulsive than a living Nation is a dead one. So maybe it was relief that I felt when I saw France, not as close to death as everyone had thought.

We talked- he was impudent, treated me as his equal though we both knew him to be far inferior, and in the end I was glad I didn't have to touch him (I understand that this is a common sensation experienced shortly after meeting France). Despite this, we somehow became closer acquaintances than either of us would have liked. After our first meeting, we ran into each other again at a cafe, which I was frequenting on business. He watched me from a table in the corner, and presently asked what I was doing.

"Business, Monsieur Bonnefoy," I shrugged. "And unless you wish to overwork me, I advise you not to order the filet mignon."

"Excellent suggestion," France smiled, and gestured to the chair. "A la carte, then?"

Perhaps it is a matter of pride to France that he is the only person in the world who can truthfully say he's dined with Death on more than one occasion. Indeed, I don't know why I continued to visit him. He was as hollow as the rest of them, albeit with a penchant for elaborately faked charm. We shared no understanding of our seperate jobs, and he had become too familiar with me for his own good. It was on the day that his Emperor died that I realized this.

"I like them best when they are close to the end," France confided while we ate on the day of Napoleon's death. "They always pretend to care more about me during the last five minutes of their lives than at any other time."

"He paid you more than enough attention during life," I said shortly. "He conquered most of Europe to make you happy, didn't he? But your demands are insatiable. No mortal could even begin to meet them."

"They always want to clasp my hand as they pass away," France continued as though he hadn't heard me. "They always want to look at me. And then they die. Do you plan it so that they die at the most poignant moment, Monsieur?"

"No. I think your vanity wishes that it is so," I countered. "Do you feel anything when he died, France?"

"Of course," France lied, without any conviction. "I am the Nation of love."

We were silent for a moment after that, so I could convey to France exactly how much I didn't believe him. Shortly after, he left me with the bill, knowing full well I do not pay for dinner out and that having to do so only makes me angry. This is why I equally detest and (dare I say?) enjoy spending time with the Nation of France. He does not give me the respect that is due, and yet he's the only one who I can tolerate that sort of impudence from.


End file.
